


not what you ordered

by whataboutateakettle



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutateakettle/pseuds/whataboutateakettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You probably shouldn’t air your patients’ dirty laundry in coffee shops. You know that right?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“You probably shouldn’t try and poison your customers.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	not what you ordered

**Author's Note:**

> Over the weekend I found about 800 words of this that I had written in April. Since I am desperately trying to avoiding writing other stuff (I'm looking at you college au), the other 3.5k happened and here we go. 
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> ~If anyone could run a mostly empty coffee shop singlehandedly - it would be Happy Quinn.  
> ~Toby being an asshole gives me considerable joy.  
> ~I know absolutely nothing about making coffee or running a coffee shop. I am however, very practised in ordering coffee. 
> 
> ~I'm going for a sort of limited POV, limited setting thing here, partly bc I'm trying something new and partly bc I'm lazy af.

* * *

She hears him before she sees him, because she’s kneeling down behind the coffee machine trying desperately to find the extra coffee filters before the morning rush actually sets in. The shipments come in on Saturday and the weekend shift manages to leave in them in a different place every time. She’s almost convinced they’re screwing with her on purpose.

She should get up; greet the customer, whoever he is. She doesn’t know what he’s saying, isn’t listening hard enough. But she can only hear one voice over the noise of the coffee grinder so she assumes he’s on the phone.

If she can just find those filters then she can move on, so she stays down, moves the extra milk jugs she’s already looked behind, just in case they’ve appeared somehow.

“Hold on,” she hears him snap, much closer now, “Hello? Anyone home?”

Oh, he’s at the counter. She stands up, a trained smile on her face.

“Uh, sorry. What can I get you?”

He’s already back on his phone, speaks until he sees her waiting expectantly for an order. “Large latte, two extra shots.”

She nods, picking up a cup before she stops. She doesn’t normally hesitate with people’s coffee orders, doesn’t particularly care what other people drink. And also people are weirdly defensive about coffee, she’s found. But this is basically a health and safety thing.

“The large already has -”

He sighs loudly; pulling his phone away from his ear like it was glued on. “Yeah, I know. Two extra shots.”

Four shots. The large already has four shots.

She frowns, thinks this guy probably doesn’t need six shots of anything. Except maybe decency. Rude customers are part of the job, but this guy just rolled his eyes at her for trying to prevent a heart attack. She gnaws at her lip as she rings it up, tells him the price without looking to see if he’s even listening.

She looks up once, from behind the coffee machine. He’s turned half away from her, phone still glued to his ear. She has a thought suddenly, smiles at her own quick thinking and focuses on finishing his drink. She leaves it on the counter without a single word and sets about looking for the rest of the coffee filters. She doubts she’ll be seeing this asshole again.

* * *

He comes in again the next morning, this time typing something as he strolls in. The bell on the front door seems to ring extra loud as the door opens, almost like it’s warning her. She’s just handing another customer their order when she sees him, swallows down a lump of annoyance.

“The Usual thanks” he says as he reaches the counter, barely glancing up from his phone.

“Can you be more specific?” She asks through her teeth.

He looks up now, smiles the same way she’s seen too many teachers and doctors and carers do when they think they know better. “You get, what, two dozen customers in here? On a good day?”

She stares at him. He stares back. Eventually she gives up, mostly because she’s run through her options and her only other one is to jump the counter and punch him in the nose. But there are other customers inside and she would definitely get fired and she can’t really afford to look for another job right now. She narrows her eyes, bites down on her lip before ringing up his order. He puts his change, all ten cents of it, into the tip jar and smiles at her again before she can hide behind the coffee machine and make his stupid drink again

“Good try with the decaf, by the way” he says suddenly, peering over the counter, voice dripping with arrogance like it hadn’t even affected him. “You had me yawning more than Sergeant Rizzo.”

She overheats his milk on purpose.

* * *

“Cinnamon? You went with cinnamon?!” She hears when she walks out from the back room. She’s not even been gone a minute so he can’t have waited long. Shame, really.

She doesn’t even try and hold back her smirk, feels thoroughly vindicated. “You have a problem with cinnamon?”

He narrows his eyes at her, and she think this is the first time she’s seen him even a little undone. “It’s for elves!”

She sighs and rings up the register before he can say anything else. “Anything else?” Maybe some rat poison.

His frown smoothens out into a smirk, then a full grin. “You do remember my order!” He points at her, his finger taunting her. She stares back.

His phone interrupts whatever this is and he answers it. His voice is loud and intrusive, fills the coffee shop and when he’s not looking she grabs the sugar syrup and pours in enough to kill a diabetic. Maybe she’ll get lucky.

* * *

“Do you have death wish or something?” She asks before he even has a chance to open his mouth. They’ve been doing this for eight days straight, not counting her short weekend reprieve, and she genuinely does not understand this guy. “At some point I’m going to run out of syrup combinations and just give you the bleach we have out back.”

He looks at her for a moment, corner of his lips twitching up.

“I like my odds.”

It’s not until she puts his coffee on the counter, complete with complementary raspberry AND chai syrup, that she realises he hasn’t used his phone once this morning.

* * *

She nods at him as he walks in. “Morning, Doc. It’s been a while.” As soon as she says it she realises two things. One, he’s only been away one day. And two, she wasn’t actually supposed to be eavesdropping to his phone calls.

“Doc?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

She locks her gaze, not willing to back down now. “You probably shouldn’t air your patients’ dirty laundry in coffee shops. You know that right?”

“You probably shouldn’t try and poison your customers,” he counters, smile playing on his lips. And it’s different this time. More than the game they’ve been playing.

She adds a little bit of chocolate to his latte, nothing else, and he puts a tattered bill in her tip jar.

* * *

One morning, he brings in a friend and they sit at a table by the window. A tall guy with a mop of curly hair and anxious hands. He orders herbal tea, asks her to double check the tea pot is thoroughly washed. She does, even though she washed it herself.

They’re talking, something hushed and important, when she brings their drinks to their table and they stop suddenly when they see her. It’s silent as she sets the drinks down but as she’s walking away she hears his friend whisper.

“Toby, you said she threatened to _poison_ you!”

_Toby_.

* * *

“That’s not a kitchen apron,” he says one morning, pointing to her body.

She looks down at herself, then back up at him with wide eyes of mock-confusion and a shake of her head.

“It’s leather. Like welders use?” he continues.

She shrugs, “Coffee burns.”

* * *

He comes in late one morning, later than usual at least. And though she hates herself a little for noticing this, she’s stopped when she see the state he’s in.

“What’s up, Doc? You don’t look great.”

He’s got bags under his eyes and his skin is paler than his usual shade of arrogant-asshole-alabaster.

“Don’t feel so great either,” he croaks at her.

She grimaces. “You’re sick. You came here to get me sick too?”

She’s glad that the place is empty, just finished the morning rush, partially because her customer service is admittedly not great today, but also because he could very well be contagious.

He shakes his head, not willing to throw the ball back to her this time.

She sighs, “Sit down. I’ll bring you some tea.”

He frowns, shaking his head again. But she just narrows her eyes, glares at him until he takes a step away from the counter. “Sit down.”

He sits, and she brings him the tea, lemon and ginger, sweetened with honey, when it’s done. And then she just stands there, watching him take his first tentative sip, because it’s hard to think of this guy as an asshole when he’s looking like he wants to crawl into a hole.

“What’s your deal?”

“Huh?” he looks up at her. She wipes her hands on her apron, for no discernible reason other than to buy time.

“You come in here every day, even after I ruined your coffee in every way possible short of sending you to the hospital.”

He smiles at that, like it’s a fond memory or something. And she realise she really truly does not get this guy.

“I looked you up, you know. There are three other coffee shops closer to your office.”

“Do you want me to go somewhere else?” He asks finally, a smile still playing on his lips that she can’t translate.

She shrugs, wishes another customer would come through the door, wishes she had a reason to go back to the kitchen. But she is diligent with her duties, and they are well and truly in the middle of the mid-morning dry spell. “Do what you want.”

He shifts in his chair, angles himself towards her a little more, and he still looks pale and ill, but there’s a little brightness in eyes now. “Thanks for the tea,” he says finally, with the voice of someone who does not want to be talking about tea.

* * *

He doesn’t come in the next two days, and she can only hope he’s recovering and not, like, actively dying. And then she has the weekend off, and if anyone asks she was busy working on her bike and not wondering whether anyone else was giving the Doc tea.

* * *

“I was wondering...” he starts, trails off quickly and shoves both hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Hmm?” She hums from under the counter, not really bothered that he was waiting for her. She’s looking for the coffee filters again. And she can’t make his coffee until she finds them.

“Do you want to get a drink? With me.”

She pops up, stands straight in front of him with a frown and suspicious eyes. “I don’t drink coffee.”

This is a) a blatant lie, and b) not the question he was asking. She is very aware of both of these facts.

His lips tighten, clearly disappointed and this only makes the lump in her throat grow. “I meant when you’re not working.”

“Not a good idea,” she says finally, keeps her body and her face straight as she can.

“Why?”

“What?”

“You’re cold and calculated. I’ll bet you have a logical reason for everything you do.” He says it so quickly and carelessly, she wonders how long he has been keeping this assessment of her to himself.

She narrows her eyes at him pointedly. “I don’t need a reason. But how about this: you’re a jackass.”

She goes out back and downs half of her water bottle and stares at the sign that reminds employees to respect the customers and when she comes back out he’s gone.

* * *

He doesn’t come back the next day, but the lump in her throat stays. She thinks about the few things she knows about him. Psychiatrist. Weirdly obsessed with bets. Coffee-addict. _Big_ talker. Awful taste in hats. Toby.

* * *

He does come back two days later, with a sheepish smile and a generous tip and faint bruises on his knuckles. She wants to say something. But she’s still angry that he broke their unspoken agreement, that he made it more than hot beverages, that he’s taken so much space in her mind.

She sprinkles some cinnamon on top on his latte just for good measure.

* * *

The next week he brings in two other friends, a guy with a tight shirt and tight lips that feels the need to tell her counter set up is inefficient. And a woman, tall and flowy with pretty hair and pretty eyes, who slaps him on the shoulder and apologises on his behalf.

She smiles, shrugs it all off.

The woman steps forward to pay for her drink and asks her name in the process and she pauses. She works in a small place, where people either know her name or don’t come often enough to care, and her boss is too cheap for nametags.

“Happy,” she says finally. And the woman says her name is Paige, and behind Paige, Toby is smiling at her like he’s just discovered something great.

“Happy,” he repeats as he hands her a note.

She takes it, drops the change straight into her tip jar, and cocks her head slightly. “Ass.”

Behind Toby, Tight Lips cracks a smile.

* * *

He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to her, back against cabinet under the counter, lets her hold her makeshift icepack in peace.

She doesn’t want peace, she wants to break something. But she also wants to keep this job, the last semblance of normal and functioning she has in her life right now.

It started with the worst weekend in history. One that included a punctured tyre on her bike and her landlord upping her rent and her neighbour’s baby deciding that two till five am is the right time to scream its head off.

It ends with her spilling hot milk on herself, missing her leather apron and getting her bare forearms instead.

“Dammit,” she hisses, throwing the near-empty metal jug to the ground, where it clatters loudly and drops herself down to it, not even caring whether she’s sitting in spilt milk.

A minute later, he’s around the counter, handing her a tea towel full of ice to hold and dropping himself down next to her. She’s not sure how he knows his way around behind the counter so well, but right now she doesn’t care.

“Are you okay?” He says softly, reaching up to reposition the towel. A cube of ice falls to the ground between them. She glares at him in response.

“I taped a ‘Back in 10’ sign on the door, so you’ve got some time,” he continues. “The burn doesn’t look too bad, you got pretty lucky there.”

She doesn’t feel lucky, she feels tired, and angry. And the tiniest bit grateful.

But she says nothing; leans her head back against the cabinet door, eyes closed, and tries to count her breathing.

She gets to 10 and he settles against the cabinet next to her. She gets to 30 and she can feel the pinch of the ice through the tea towel. She gets to a 60 and she opens her eyes, turns her head to look at him. He’s got a dollar bill in his hands and is folding it intently. She watches as her tip becomes the tip of a beak, together with wings and a body and a tail. And she keeps watching as he balances the paper bird on his finger and holds it out in front of her face.

The bird wobbles with the movement, but stays up on his finger and she bites down on her lip to keep herself quiet.

“Sometimes things can seem crumpled and complicated and still work out just fine.”

* * *

He comes back just as she’s about to close up. She frowns.

Yeah she is grateful for what he did this morning, and yeah her arm is feeling a lot better and yeah she’s managed to make it through the rest of the day without breaking down. And yeah she’s kept the origami bird in the pocket of her apron.

But if he asks for a coffee after she’s just cleaned the machine, she’s kicking him the hell out.

“I have something that might help,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at her, before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

She raises both eyebrows. And for the first time in three days, she smiles.

* * *

She taps her glass against his, and he grins, takes a sip of his whiskey. This is the third time they’ve done this in as many weeks. She’s keeping the bottle of whiskey hidden behind her apron in her locker, not that anyone would check anyway. And every Monday he comes back as she’s closing and they have a drink. If nothing else, he has good taste in whiskey.

“Paige said I should invite you to the garage,” he says, runs his finger around the edge of the glass, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“Where?”

He looks up at her, “Walter’s place. He’s got a roof terrace. And Proton Arnold.”

She sits up, stares at him. “And it works?” She hasn’t played Proton Arnold since she was a kid.

He nods, “The stupid thing still takes quarters.”

She raises and eyebrow at him, takes a sip of her drink. “I can fix that.”

He laughs, a wide, bright, goofy grin on his face. “You, Happy Quinn, know the way to a nerds heart!”

* * *

“Hi,” she says, polite and confused as Paige stands in front of her alone. She comes in with Toby sometimes, and she’s seen her at Walter’s garage. But it’s never been just the two of them. And she realises she has no idea what to say.

Paige is friendly enough for the both of them though, orders a cinnamon latte, keeps chatting as Happy makes it.

“Oh, are you free this Friday?” she asks as Happy hands her the coffee. “It’s Toby’s birthday and we are throwing him a little surprise party. He’d – we’d like it if you came.”

She chews on her lip, wonders whether she should go, wonders whether she should tell Paige Toby almost definitely knows about the party already.

“Sure, I’ll be there,” she nods.

Paige smiles at her, like she’s happy about more than her answer. And it’s almost impossible for her not to smile back.

* * *

She can’t decide whether to get him a present or not. Not that she _needs_ to. But she’s been thinking about it for the last two days and she can’t think of anything appropriate – not that Toby is ever appropriate – and she has to go home to change before this stupid surprise party that he already knows about.

In the end she grabs a small handful of loyalty cards from the counter and stamps them all until there’s a pile of free coffee cards in front of her and then she finds some paper to wrap them up and scribbles _happy birthday -happy_ on the front.

* * *

She hears him before she sees him and her heart sinks and her stomach knots up and she wishes there was a back door out of this place.

She’s in the back room, but the shop is quiet, and she can clearly his voice, a distinct “Dammit Sly, I’m a doctor, not a mind-reader.”

If he had any decency he wouldn’t have come in today, or ever again, and they could both pretend they had never even met and go about their lives. She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and focuses on forcing her legs to walk out to the front of the shop.

“Hey,” he smiles at her, eyes warm. He hangs up the phone, and she’s half convinced Sylvester was still talking on the other end.

“Hi,” she bites out, heads straight to the coffee machine, avoids looking up even though she can feel his gaze on her skin.

“Are we gonna talk about this?” He asks, tapping his fingers along the countertop.

“Nothing to talk about.” She stops the steamer more forcefully than she realises at the jugs nearly slips out of her hand.

“So you _didn’t_ wish me a happy birthday, kiss me and then run out of the garage on Friday night? And then not return any of my calls?”

She frowns, “I never gave you my number.”

He raises an eyebrow at her and she realises it’s probably a stupid question, considering who his friends are. Considering that she’d managed to find his phone number in a few taps of her keyboard.

She huffs, moves on. “It was a mistake. I take it back.”

He shakes his head, “You can’t just _take it back_.”

“I was drunk.”

“You rode your bike home,” he reminds her.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

He places his hands on the counter, leans forward. “I think it did.”

“You don’t give up do you?!” She snaps suddenly, whipping towards him.

He stares back, his lips quirking up more and more the longer he’s looking at her.

She can’t believe she was stupid enough to kiss him. Stupid enough to like it. Stupid enough to think about it all weekend, to want to do it again.

But she’s not that stupid.

“You kissed me. For a reason. I just want to know why you're fighting so hard against it.” He says, serious now. And he's looking at her like she imagines he looks at his patients and she hates it.

She shrugs. “People let you down. I learned to be smart about it a long time ago.”

He doesn’t say anything for a bit, looks around like he’s searching for something until his eyes land on the origami bird – his origami bird- that she’d blu-tacked to the side of the coffee machine.

“Do you remember what I said when I made this?” He pulls the bird off and starts unfolding it.

“ _Hey!_ ” She reaches out, but he’s taller than her and the counter top is too wide between them.

He unfolds the note, holds it up to her open, but crumpled and creased all over.

“So?” She asks, shaking her head.

“Sometimes, if you’re open to it,” he starts, his fingers quickly refolding the bill into something else. “You can create something new. And special. Even if it's still a little messy.”

He hands her the folded bill and she takes it before she looks at it. It’s hastily folded into the shape of a heart, all uneven edges and sharp corners. But still, it's pretty good.  

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low and hopeful, and she looks at him, running her fingers around the edge of the heart.

* * *

She’s just pulling off her apron when he walks into the shop. The last hour had been excruciatingly quiet and boring and slow, and only partly because she’s had like one customer.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “First date, you ready for this?”

“Not a date,” she says, glancing over at him before making sure the cash register was locked. “A test drive.”

He grins, waggles his eyebrows, “I’m a doctor, I think I know what I’m talking about.”

She throws a dirty tea towel and hits him square in the face.

* * *

She hears him before she sees him. Well she hears the bell above the door and looks up to see him grinning at her as he dodges an exiting customer. He scans the rest of the rooms quickly and then darts around the counter to her, leaning down to press his lips to her temple. She closes her eyes against the contact, lets herself smile, brings and hand to his waist. She knows that in 10 seconds she’s going have to get back to work.

“I have something for you,” he smiles at her again, reaches into his satchel and pulls out an envelope.

“What’s this for?” she asks, furrowing her brow, eyeing it cautiously.

“Anniversary,” he says, raising both eyebrows when she still looks confused. “Well. Half. Six month ago today I walked in here for the first time.”

“Seriously?” She asks, wants to laugh. She can’t believe it’s this guy, this idiot, this asshole, that makes her feel like this.

He places the envelope in her hands, nods towards eagerly, but she ignores it. Instead, uses her free hand to pull him down by the collar to reach his lips.

Nearby, someone coughs, and she pushes him away she fast as she pulled him in and looks apologetically at the woman in front of her.

“Sorry, that was -” she starts, but Toby’s hand on her back stops her.

“I gotta get to work, see you after. Open that envelope.” He whispers in her ear then darts around the counter and out of the shop. She follows him until the bell rings again, and then her gaze snaps back to the woman in front of her, who’s watching her with an amused expression.

“ _Sorry_ ,” she shakes her head, “What can I get you?”

* * *

In the backroom, she opens the envelope, rolls her eyes at the cheesy card, bites her lip as she reads the message inside, holds her breath as she spots the printed out reservation for a resort in Ojai, reserved for the weekend. At the bottom of the print out is a list of services they offer, and one is circled in bright red pen: Barista classes. _Maybe you could learn something_ , he’s written next to it.

She pulls out her phone, types _you’re an asshole_ and sends it to him.

_You opened it! You in?_

Her eyes scan back to the message in his card. Stupid, long, important words and the butterflies she’s been feeling for months now feel stronger than ever. She smiles to herself, picks up her phone again.

_Yeah I’m in_.


End file.
